


distress call

by fadewords



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who: Eighth Doctor Adventures - Various Authors
Genre: (also i don't rly focus on it here but the doctor's autistic in this fic) (just so ur aware) (yes), Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Gen, Nonbinary Character, also like fair warning nothing is capitalized and there are em dashes mcfuckin everywhere, anyway enjoy!!, ostensibly for the #aesthetic but rly just cos i'm a lazy ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 04:46:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11051613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadewords/pseuds/fadewords
Summary: team tardis receives a distress call from deep space and attempts a rescue mission. nearly everything that can go wrong, does.





	distress call

the doctor and fitz are in space, floating near an asteroid and nothing else for farther than fitz cares to ask, and much, much farther than the doctor cares to explain. it’s quiet except for fitz plucking at his guitar, still except for the doctor’s fingers slipping silently over a bit of hardware as they listen. there is nothing else, no one else, save the tardis, and compassion, sleeping somewhere deep within her.

abruptly, compassion emerges, shoulders tense, half-glaring, head bent toward the ground almost enough to hide the shadows under her eyes.

suddenly, beeping. the doctor doesn’t notice, too wrapped up in their fidgeting, but fitz does.

“doctor? doctor, what’s that?”

the doctor looks up, blinking owl-faced, then stands fluidly, walks over to the console, and makes a different owl face. that’s…unusual, that particular combination of lights and sounds and data. what does it mean? they walk around the console, trailing their hands over the bits and bobs, then stop abruptly. it’s a—

“distress signal!” compassion’s spine straightens.

“yes!” the doctor nods, sets the tardis to track it, she takes off—

but there’s nothing there. the doctor frowns. they’re positive they aimed right, but—yes, they’re exactly where they’re meant to be—but the scanner shows nothing, and the signal’s gone and have they lost it…? but no, there it is again, let’s follow it—

and repeat. and repeat. and—

buzzing? annoying, uncomfortable, a little unsettling—

no, focus.

they go back to fiddling with the console—fourth time’s the charm, maybe?

meanwhile, fitz is staring into space, looking faintly dazed. “is now really the time for music?”

the doctor spares a moment to give him a third owl face. “what music? radio’s off.”

“no it isn’t,” compassion says, frowning. “it’s been playing the same song for hours. i thought you were on another binge.”

they frown twice as hard as compassion—the radio hasn’t been on in _days_ , to their knowledge, and _they_ can’t hear anything; has it been set for human ears only?—but say nothing, too distracted by the distress signal and the complete inability of the tardis to land where they tell her to—and the infernal _buzzing_ , which is getting harder to ignore. they barely hear fitz’s reply (“what d’you mean, hours? it only just started!”) over the obnoxious—

…wait.

they concentrate. it’s mostly just sensation, but there _is_ a sort of rhythm to it—

“it’s not a song, fitz, it’s telepathy!” not any sort they’re used to, it feels—off, muffled, wrong, and wordless—but it’s still clearly—

“a cry for help.” compassion steps forward. “the lyrics are….” she trails off rather uncharacteristically, which piques the doctor’s interest. that she’s hearing lyrics at all is, well, interesting—maybe this brand of telepathy translates better with humans? odd, that—but more importantly, what kind of lyrics would make compassion go wordless? what could she be hearing?

they’re tempted to ask, but they have a job to do. they track the signal in earnest with her help, urge fitz to keep an eye on the scanner. fitz obliges, springing into action with his usual false bravado.

the doctor keeps thinking, talking, working at the console, wondering aloud how whoever these people are got stranded in the middle of nowhere and how they survived—when they find a ship.

they scan it for life, for power, find it devoid of both—have they been searching for an empty ship with everyone on board dead and the computer just—still transmitting the signal pointlessly with the very last dregs of power? or are there people on-board, alive, shielded from their scanners? power they can’t detect? are they going to get to save tons of people, or just a few, or one, or none, or—

abruptly fitz exclaims—“there!”

the doctor dashes over eagerly, compassion close behind, relieved and excited and—but there’s no one on the scanner?

fitz describes a beautiful woman, lost, trapped in a dark spacesuit, “it’s no wonder you can’t see her doctor, your eyes must be failing you in your old age—”

the doctor swats his head affectionately, makes some quip back, but frowns—their eyes are fine, better than fitz’s, why can’t they see—? ah, there’s a small shape in the corner, that must be—

“are you sure it’s a woman,” compassion says doubtfully, “they’re awfully far away.”

“—well i suppose,” fitz says, “the voice _is_ a bit androgynous...but whichever way, they're beautiful--man, woman, or gorgeous neither, like—"

fitz breaks off, flushing a little, and directs them toward the person, then heads to the door, flings it open, points—

the doctor frowns, squints—still can’t quite see—reaches out telepathically— _are you there?_

then, slowly, a small figure, far away. yes, in a dark space suit—yes…

they look time lord, but might be human—but the telepathy suggests—and if they’re still alive—maybe time lord? how did a time lord wind up stranded all the way out here? and if they’re time lord why aren’t they  _talking_  the usual way—another species, maybe? or are they just nonverbal? scared?

—unimportant.

the doctor closes the door, hurries back to the console—they have to save them, get them in the ship, there’s not much oxygen in that suit, and so far from their ship—the doctor can see it in the background now, the logo looks like it matches the one on their suit, but it’s hard to tell—…and who knows how long they’ve been out here…how have they not frozen, how have they not died, starved, how—

—unimportant, focus—the important part is they  _are_  alive, and the doctor has to keep them that way,  _so_ —

the doctor tries to materialize around them—can’t. the tardis won’t budge. _what’s_ wrong _old girl, why won’t you—_

well nevermind. they’ll get a spacesuit then, yes—

fitz is reaching for the door again, compassion not far behind—

“wait,” the doctor says, “i’ll go, just let me get a spacesuit.”

a pause, fitz frowning, then he nods, “okay, but i’m coming too.”

“fitz—”

“i’m coming,” he says stubbornly, and runs off for a suit.

“and me.” compassion follows before the doctor can get a word in edgewise, suggest maybe because she looks so tired—

the doctor stares after the reckless idiots, then starts to follow, get a suit. tells the person _i’m coming_. they keep buzz-singing, more static-y every moment, and the doctor realizes—they’re dying, there’s not  _time_  for a suit.

they rush to the console, extend the shields, maintaining the atmosphere, expand them as far as they’ll go—they have to reach the person, keep them safe, give them oxygen—and here’s hoping they breathe it—

the tardis protests, but in the end the shields extend just far enough to include them in the bubble, to allow them warmth and air and—

the song gets louder. they’re still dying, but more slowly, there’s time to get a suit now.

the doctor runs, gets the suit—finds compassion searching quickly-but-methodically, looking a bizarre mix of exhausted and energized, and fitz frantic, neck-deep in clothes, holding up a familiar jacket with familiar patches—directs them to the suits, explains they’ve extended the shields and the person’s going to be okay, they just have to get them inside so they can recover—

compassion snaps that she knows, steps into the suit, secures her helmet, heads for the console room, the doctor a half-step behind.

fitz pushes in front of them both and steps outside the tardis without putting on his helmet. the doctor grabs his arm just in time, pulls him back. “what are you doing—?”

“you extended the shields,” he says, shrugging out of their grip, pulling away, heading back. “it’s fine.”

“it’s not fine, you should still use the helmet, you don’t have a tether, what were you thinking—”

“i was thinking they need help and there’s no time to waste—”

“i understand, but killing yourself won’t—”

“if it saves them—”

“fitz—” the doctor breaks off, shakes their head, grabs a rope. “we’ll talk about this when they’re inside. you stay here.”

“no—”

suddenly, compassion sways, steadying herself on the doorframe. the doctor pulls her back, but she struggles—

they sit her in a chair, alarmed. “are you all right?”

there’s a sluggish reply, she tries to get up—

“no, stay, rest, we’ll get you to the med bay as soon as they’re inside.”

they turn. fitz is on his way out the door again. another argument ensues—even more suddenly, alarms—

the doctor’s frozen, torn—the person needs them, but the cloister bells are blaring, but fitz is having some sort of an emotional crisis, but compassion is having a medical one, but—

turns to the person—to fitz—to the console—to fitz—to compassion—to the console—to the person—

runs to the console, interprets the mess of flashing lights and blaring noise, and discovers—the power’s failing—why is the power failing—have they broken down is the tardis alright they’re so far from civilization there’s—is this what happened to the person’s ship is that why they had to leave are they all going to be trapped out in space—if they could just scan the area for anomalies—but with the power failing and everyone possibly on the verge of death that’s impossible and—

“fitz we’ve got a problem! …fitz?”

but he’s not there, he’s gone, out the door, tethered to the rope and his helmet not securely fastened and—

“fitz!”

but fitz ignores them.

“—be careful!”

fitz ignores them except for one very rude gesture.

the doctor turns back to the console, fretting for two now—for three, for four if they count themself—and tries to slow the power failure, to stop it, reverse it—is something in the void interfering with the eye or—?

is the person okay, is fitz going to be able to carry them back on his own, he’s not the strongest—is  _fitz_  okay, his helmet’s not fastened properly, and if the power’s failing the shields might be—

“fitz!” the doctor yells, and fitz ignores them.

“fasten your helmet!”

and fitz ignores them.

“fitz, come back!”

and fitz ignores them.

the doctor presses a few more futile buttons on the console, then runs to fitz, pulls on the rope, tugging, pulling him back into the tardis, and finally fitz reacts, fighting to get back, to reach the person.

“—wait!”he says, “i was almost there, i almost had them, i—”

and he sounds breathless and  _god_  what if they hadn’t realized in time what if they still don’t get him into the tardis in time what if—

and the doctor keeps pulling, drags him all the way back into the tardis in record time and shoves him away and says, “the shields are failing you could have died—”

fitz ignores them, tries to push past—“i’d’ve been fine! i was nearly there, you couldn’t have waited, they need—”

“i’ll get them,” the doctor says.

“no,” fitz says, “i need to save them—”

“fitz, i know you’re brave, but—”

“it’s not about that, it’s about—”

the tardis blares louder, the doctor cringes, turns instinctively toward the console—fitz uses their distraction to push past, run to the door again, this time sans rope—

the doctor rushes forward, tackles him. “you can’t, the shields are failing, weren’t you listening, all systems are failing, we’re in as much danger as they are—”

and they want to leap over fitz and save the person themself. they could, they’re time lord, all they need is the rope and helmet and they’ll be fine—they might even be fine without the helmet, for a bit, and the other person might not, if they’re not time lord—or even if they  _are_  time lord, they’ve been out there  _so long_ —and they’re dying, and so lonely, so, so lonely, if the doctor could just—

but the tardis is dying, too, and if they don’t save her they can’t save the person either so—

but fitz is still struggling, and—

what to do, what to do—

who to save—

tardis or fitz or person or fitz or tardis or—

tardis. save the tardis then the person which will save fitz, and then yes.

but—

the doctor ties the rope back around fitz’s waist.

“thank you,” fitz says, both angry and relieved, “now just let me—what—what’re you doing—”

the doctor pulls fitz over to a chair and pushes him down and ties him in it, pinning his arms to his sides. “no heroics. wait here.”

they say the same to the person, say _wait here_ , and then _i’m coming, i promise_ —find themself halfway to the door, then shake their head, turn around, remind themself,  _no heroics, focus_. go to the console, focus on how to stop the power draining—how to reaffix the shields—a small part of their mind still wondering how to save the person, how to handle fitz, who’s shouting obscenities at them and calling to the person in turns, responding to whatever it is they’re singing, reassuring them he’ll save them, he loves them, they’ll be fine—

loves them? fitz has always been a hopeless romantic, but isn’t this a bit quick even for him…?

no, focus. focus focus focus. tardis, dying, fix, now. yes.

…no, there’s something—something. something they’re forgetting, something…

 _focus_ , why can’t they focus, why is there so much  _noise_ —

the doctor slams up shields, apologizing to the person for blocking them out but they need to  _concentrate_ , commune with the tardis, line up their mind with her mathematics, find the problem, find the failure, find a solution, save everyone, live happily ever after, etc. etc.

but there doesn’t seem to be a fault in the mathematics, no internal source of the power failure—so they were right, the problem’s external, something in the environment, the same something that destroyed the person’s ship. find the cause, reverse it, save everyone, simple.

but they’re in the middle of nowhere, there’s nothing around, nothing that could be draining the power, they scanned and scanned while they were looking for the person but there was nothing, only them and the ship. is the ship the problem? a creature aboard, an anomaly? but no, they’d checked and there were no energy sources, nothing sentient, nothing  _alive_. could it be a virus, something not properly—? maybe, but—how’d it affect the tardis?

they extended the shields, is there something on the person, on their suit, or—but no, that would’ve set off alarms, surely, it has to be something else, something—

a horrible wave trickles over the doctor—

something  _in_  them? are they possessed? by a parasite, telepathic or otherwise, that’s sapping the tardis’s energy? that would make sense, that would explain—

but how to get it out, how to save them without bringing the parasite aboard, how to—

there has to be a way—

 _no_ , focus—tardis, main priority. fitz, still weakly struggling to get out of his bonds, possibly beginning to be affected by the creature, second priority. the poor person, maybe not even properly alive anymore, third priority—they apologize silently, hoping the person’s still truly around to hear it, and the buzzing-song grows louder, more desperate, more terrified, inconsolable—they apologize again, turn their mind back toward the tardis, try to ignore the guilt. (and then there’s compassion, long since passed out, something clearly wrong with her, too—fourth priority, maybe second, maybe needs to be swapped with fitz, who is at least still conscious—)

the doctor presses a series of buttons, tries to turn on the equivalent of emergency power, reassert the shields—it works, for all of five seconds, and then they start to fail again. the doctor tries more serieses of buttons, and more, trying to figure out the right method, the right combination of alterations, to fix everything—

but the power keeps draining and it seems like—it seems like—the only way to fix things is to get the parasite out of the person, or else get them away from the ship, abandon them—but they  _can’t_ , there’s a good chance they’re still alive, so freeing them—they have to try that first. have to.

they reach out cautiously, telepathically, trying to hold back their suspicion so the parasite won’t sense it, trying at the same time to reassure the person, and walks over to them—the closer they are the easier this’ll be—they can’t manage physical contact, but proximity should help, at least, the parasite’s clearly long-range…

they halt at the door, grip the doorframe, resist the urge to walk  _just_  a little further…it won’t do any of them any good, and it’s probably just the parasite talking, looking for a stronger vessel…

they reach out more, try to really  _reach_  the parasite, speak to it, rip it out of the poor person—

can’t find anything, no matter how deeply they probe, just a sense of unease and a creeping down their spine, like they’re on the verge of falling into an abyss—

they grip the tardis frame tighter, take a step back, finding they’ve put one foot out of the tardis. close their eyes, breathe, reach further, grip tighter, splintering the not-really-wood—

open their eyes—startle, take another step back—what on  _earth_ —

they blink, and their vision resettles, and an instinctive relaxation washes over them, but—

they narrow their eyebrows. no. they know what they saw.

they focus, narrow the mental contact to laser focus, really  _look_  at the person—and, after several moments, there, again—the person is gone, and in their place—

something massive, dark in places, shimmering in others, bioluminescent and writhing, cracking, unstable—and in others, nonexistent, nothing there not even stars. but not a hole in flesh, or a natural gap—a nonbeing, space where there should be none, a missing piece of reality—and the rest of it pieces of reality that shouldn’t exist—or at least, shouldn’t exist  _here_ , not on this plane of existence—something eldritch and unnamable and singing and so very, very old—

the next instant, a person again, sharper than before, more defined, more colorful, more pitiful.

the doctor frowns. the plainer form’s a projection, then—and they’re losing the ability to maintain it. why? running out of energy? dying faster? —or is it the _parasite’s_ projection, meant to create more pity for their victim so they can steal the energy of whoever tries to help? does the person prefer their natural state? is the flash a sign they’re fighting back? or is the plainer form not a projection at all—is it the larger one, perhaps the true form of the parasite, and the flash a sign they’re being overtaken? —or is it not a sign of anything and they’re just telepathically close enough to see through the projection, whosever it is? or—?

the doctor shakes their head. unimportant—either way, they’re dying, and the doctor has to separate them from the parasite before it’s too late.

they have t—

the cloister bells sound again, they become aware of fitz still mumbling, sounding weak—is he okay? is he running out of air? —the door’s still open, the shields are failing, he could—god, why haven’t they  _thought_ —?

the doctor takes a step back, slams the door shut, as though it’ll help in the long-term, as though it’s a  _solution_  and’ll keep him safe—

as they do, the person flashes out of existence again, and the doctor frowns. what does it _mean_?

the buzzing increases volume and speed, like someone’s taken a jackhammer to their skull, and they wince—fitz groans, tries to break free of his bonds—

 _i’m sorry_ , the doctor says, unsure whether the person or the parasite is hearing it, unsure whether it matters anymore, unable to find a line between either, not sure there’s much of a _difference_ anymore, the buzzing is so incoherent and the projection is so—

they freeze, hand still on the doorknob.

the projection.

they’ve been operating under the assumption that the person or the parasite must have better control—they consider and discard symbiosis; the telepathic projection shouldn’t flash like that with symbiosis, there should be no power struggle, and besides that, twice the psychic power _should_ keep the projection intact no matter how close the doctor gets; telepathy has never been their strong suit— _but_. but. further back, there was another assumption, wasn’t there—that there must be both a person _and_ a parasite. briefly, behind the thickest mental shields, they consider the possibility of an _or_ —or rather, a possibility of an _and_ without a _both_. the possibility of one, singular source of psychic power.

and, if the answer _is_ or, is one, what to make of the logo on the projected spacesuit matching the logo on the side of the ship? did the one come from the ship and turn against its inhabitants, was the one being transported and escaped—or does the one only bear the logo because the projection is telepathically based and the doctor expected it to. does the one not come from the ship? and if they don’t come from the ship—

where do they come from.

—and if the ship doesn’t come from them, how did it get there.

—possibly, it followed a series of increasingly inexplicable distress signals. possibly, it and its crew tried to find the source. possibly, it and its crew did. possibly, the source drained the ship’s power, and that’s why it’s drifting unpowered. possibly, the source fed on the minds of the ship’s crew, and that’s why it’s drifting uninhabited. possibly, the source decided to stick around.

possibly, the source got hungry again. possibly, the source sent out more distress signals.

possibly…

the doctor carefully constructs mental shields, blocks out the noise as best they can. it’s still there—they still want badly—so badly—to help them—but it’s quiet enough that they let go of the doorknob and step away, and quiet enough that they feel safe to think.

…the person _is_ the parasite—and a very particular kind of parasite, if they’re not mistaken. the buzzing, reading as singing to their companions; the projection, so pitiful, stranded, alone; the larger form, denying identification, shifting, indescribable, powerful, and _old_ ; the desperation, the cry for help; the power draining; the urge to help, to protect, to save, overpowering reason, concern for the ship and for companions and for themself—fitz’s declaration of love, especially, tips the scales. this is a voidmaid, one of an ancient race, massive, telepathic, not entirely of this plane, rumored to travel the empty spaces and feed on dying stars, and, sometimes, to take on different forms. and this one, particularly—from a splinter group, sometimes called a sect, sometimes a related species, sometimes just one single being, corrupted beyond reason—a voidsinger, rumored to do much the same, but to prefer ships and people’s minds to stars, to feed on fuel and memory, nuclear power and emotion, and to lure their victims close (or sometimes into black holes, the stories varied) by preying on common weaknesses—compassion, desire for connection, love. as for their own weaknesses—

the doctor has never heard, in all the legends, of anyone managing to stop them. a scant few _claims_ of close escapes, sure, but none confirmed, and none with a defeated singer at the end, much less a reformed one. but they’re going to have to think of something, find a way, and soon—they have to stop them leeching the power before the tardis dies—because it’s becoming increasingly likely that simply dematerializing away from the voidsinger won’t be possible, no matter how many tricks they pull out of their sleeves, and no matter how much bigger said sleeves are on the inside.

the doctor takes half a microspan to gather their thoughts and form half a plan, then tears down their shields and—

what feels like hours but can only have been minutes of rapid communication later, the doctor slams their shields back up, fighting for breath and fighting the urge to rip the door open and fling themself outside—if they can just  _save_  the voidsinger, then—

but the lights are dimming and fitz looks utterly drained and now that they know the voidsinger’s been feeding on him—is  _still_ feeding on him—the doctor’s face goes flat. they look away, walk over the console, curiously weak, and pretend they don’t know the voidsinger’s been feeding on them, too.

tardis tricks—failed. reasoning—failed. compromises, bribes, offers of alternatives—failed. psychic attack—failed. psychic defense—failed. that only leaves one option.

physical attack. they won’t be able to affect the parts of the singer that aren’t located on this plane, but the others, surely—? but they can’t _reach_ the singer, not without getting close enough to be eaten, so it’s—

unless—

the doctor runs back through the tardis, through half a dozen corridors, pretending they don’t know how bad a sign it is that the tardis didn’t just move the necessary items closer to them—until they find—

yes, there—

they grab a few things from one room, a few from another, and the final, most important ingredient from the pocket of the jacket fitz had held up earlier, then race back to the console room to find fitz slumped over in the chair.

the doctor drops the mess, rushes over, feels for a pulse—and yes, there it is, he’s still alive—scrambles sideways—and yes, compassion too—but if they’re not quick—

they go back to the mess on the floor—metal bits and bobs, electrical wiring, metal wiring, arrows, circuitry, a few vials of chemicals that probably shouldn’t be so close to each other, and a load of nitro-9. they start combining them, taking care to keep their mental shields as solid as they can so the voidsinger won't slip through without them noticing. they wire this to that, add circuitry here and there, fasten this there and that here, and suddenly have a bow and an arrow and rocket propulsion for the former and—what’re they missing—something, something—

the doctor sets them down, runs to the med bay, thinking of all the lore they’ve ever heard or read or seen or smelled about voidmaids, and their cousins, the voidsingers, voidcallers, omega’s bane, and what they all agree on—they’re all _hungry_ , the uncorrupted all feed on _dying_ stars, they travel in the _empty_ spaces, the _dark_. the doctor grabs a few more chemicals, runs back—pretends not to notice the light’s’ve dimmed even more, and the sounds of the tardis’ve quieted—and adds a few more things to the arrows, filling a component with a particular solution—if they can simulate a reaction like that of a newborn star, see what happens—and filling another with another solution—or simulate one like a star in its prime—and so on, alternating through the rest of the arrows, leaving some plain, just in case last-minute thinking is required. then they get busy with the chemicals that shouldn’t really interact and put them dangerously close to interacting—let’s see how they like a tainted food supply—and then—

they open the door, aim the bow and arrow, and fire—then take a step back, lower the bow, telling themself they’re getting ready to reload but really sparing a second to hope it’ll work and another to hope it doesn’t because they should be _helping _the voidsinger, really, not killing them, this is wrong, they just want help, they’re _dying_ , they’re  _starving_ , it’s all their fault if they’d just let them  _feed_ —__

____

____

—that’s new?

they fire again, and again, aiming for the places that don’t exist as much as the places that do, and—

the buzzing-singing stutters, continues more pitifully, more convincingly, all broken static—

they fire again, then hesitate—compassion groans, the first sound she’s made in what feels like _hours_ —and again and again and again until they’re out of arrows and the singing’s—

not stopped, but quieted, barely there, and—

they pause, concentrate—the power drainage’s stopped, too.

they breathe a sigh of relief, slam the door shut, and lean back against it, slide to the ground, eyes closing. thank rassilon—

the power will rebuild, the tardis will be fine, they’ll all be—

their eyes snap open.  _fitz_.

they stand up—stagger—hadn’t realized they’d gotten so tired, how much had the singer fed on them…?—over to fitz, feel for a pulse—for a long, hearts-stopping moment they can’t find one, then realize it’s only because their fingers are trembling too much, take a breath they don’t really need that doesn’t really help, press a little harder, feel a faint pulse—breathe a sigh of relief, then press their forehead to fitz’s, just for a moment, just to check—and yes, there’s fitz’s mind, perfectly fine, just exhausted, sapped of energy but not content, their memories should be fine, maybe a little fuzzier, and their personality should be intact, and—

they stumble over to compassion, do the whole thing over again, more carefully—she’s been out longer, the damage may be worse—and really they should have checked on her first, given that, and given how much more susceptible she is to…

they curse under their breath.

 _signals_. they could’ve figured it out so much sooner, if only they’d paid _attention_. of _course_ compassion had collapsed, of _course_ she’d looked drained before all this had begun, of _course_ she’d been the first to hear the “singing.” of _course_.

 _rassilon_ , they should have realized. but they didn’t, and because they didn’t, everyone got hurt and she collapsed and she’s probably _braindead_ by now and—

—but somehow, impossibly, she’s not. she’s okay. fuzzier, and undoubtedly going to take longer to recover, and probably going to need medicine fitz won't, but alive, with her mind and self intact, and—yes…

the doctor checks one last time, just to be sure, then pulls away, lays down, falls asleep.

wakes, some time later, to singing, and jackknifes upright, breathing hard and ragged—then relaxes slightly, abruptly, recognizing the voice—it’s only fitz, not—

only fitz…

and the lights are back on full power, the shields reasserted, the tardis thrumming with—less than her usual amount of energy, but enough to take off—and good thing, too. if they’ve been out long enough for the tardis to repower then the singer outside is probably nearing enough strength to start leeching it again, and—

they haul themself to their feet, walk to the console—they want to fly, but their feet feel like lead—and take her far, far away, then scan the surroundings thoroughly and find only late twentieth-century earth.

good.

good good good. the singer’s still out there, but that’s a problem for another day. for now, they’re all alive and okay and—

they grin and spin in a circle—then another, just because.

“you going to untie me anytime soon?” fitz grumbles.

the doctor whirls around, unties him, apologizing.

“what happened?”

the doctor whirls around again, and there’s compassion—awake somehow, already, though by all rights she should be unconscious for several hours still—and yet there she is, pushing herself into a sitting position, eyes open and glaring.

“we were attacked—all of us, even the tardis.” and they begin to explain. when they get to the part about the parasite, fitz interrupts—

“it was a siren, right? i figured once i came to—”

“…yes,” the doctor says. “the…space version of a siren, yes.” and they explain further, about what the voidsinger is and how their kind works, the manipulation of so-called weaknesses, and some of the legends about them, and—

“any lasting effects?”

“none—maybe some memory loss, but the tardis can restore—”

“no!” fitz says. “no.”

“okay.” the doctor glances at compassion questioningly, but she only shrugs.

“if i find anything missing.”

a pause, then fitz asks, “how’d you defeat it?”

“them,” the doctor corrects. “they were sentient.”

compassion makes a face, but nods.

“…fine. how’d you defeat them?” fitz pauses. “actually—how’d you keep your wits about you enough to defeat them? all i wanted to do was save them and bring them in the tardis so i…” he turns a slightly alarming shade of pink. “well, i thought i loved them.”

“i know,” the doctor says, amused _._ “i heard you tell them. i did say they exploit that sort of thing, didn’t i?”

“well, yeah. but…you didn’t feel anything like that?” fitz asks carefully, while compassion looks on impassively.

they shrug. “i wanted to save them. i didn’t want to marry them, or whatever else you had in mind.”

fitz turns a slightly more alarming shade of pink.

"they exploited my _compassion_ , that's all," the doctor finishes, grinning.

compassion rolls her eyes, ignoring the pointed, delighted look they send her way--though whether more annoyed at their pun, or their allusion to her having been the first to drop, they couldn't say.

“and to answer your question,” the doctor adds, grabbing the remaining stick of nitro-9 from the floor beside the console and waving it. “i’m an arrow Ace.” and they laugh, dropping the stick carelessly.

fitz’s eyes widen, and he frowns. “you shot it—them—with a dynamite arrow?”

the doctor nods, too busy still laughing to elaborate.

“…care to let me in on the joke?”

“it’s a pun—in more ways than one…” they stand, walk over the console, and begin to fiddle with a functionless switch. then they look up, and, at fitz’s confused look, begin to explain, still fiddling. “well, you see, to start, i had this friend…”

**Author's Note:**

> i literally wrote this entire fic 100% just for that last pun and tbh i have no regrets


End file.
